Doctor at Sea

satisfaction the boats were swung in again and everyone dispersed.
    ‘Board of Trade sports,’ Trail said with disgust.’ Waste of time.’
    ‘Why do we do it then?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh, it has to go in the log-book. There’d be hell in Liverpool if we didn’t. Some skippers cook the log, but not this baby. Anything to give him a chance of bawling through a loud hailer.’
    Sunday was recognizable, as it was the only occasion when we flew the flag at sea. From eight to midday the red ensign waved from the gaff on the mainmast, to convince the Almighty that we had not forgotten him -for there was no one else but ourselves to see it. The appearance of the flag that symbolized the Sabbath was greeted warmly by all hands, not through reverence but because, under Ministry of Transport regulations, we all got an extra half-day’s pay.
    Sunday was also marked by the ceremony of full inspection. This was ordered by Captain Hogg’s copy of Instructions for Masters, the manual through which the Fathom Steamship Company directed and advised their commanders, which contained in its yellow pages regulations designed to right such nautical disasters as mutiny, epidemics of smallpox, lost anchor, and imminent shipwreck. At eleven o’clock the four of us fell in behind the Captain, who indicated the exceptional occasion by carrying a torch and a walking-stick. On the poop the ship’s company was lined up ready for us - deckhands under the charge of the Bos’n on the port side, firemen and greasers to starboard, and catering staff, in fresh white jackets, standing nervously athwartships. Captain Hogg passed down the ranks scowling into each face like a vengeful but short-sighted victim at an identification parade, then we marched in and out of the little, green-painted crews’ cabins that each smelt of feet and hair-oil. They had been cleaned and tidied so that nothing in the slightest degree disturbing could fall into the Captain’s visual fields. The decks were scrubbed, the blankets folded ostentatiously, and the owners’ possessions -varying from a guitar to a caged canary - were set in unnaturally tidy piles. Captain Hogg shone his torch beneath the bunks, inspected the undersurfaces of tables and chairs, and thrust the crook of his walking-stick into every inviting orifice. Usually his rummaging produced nothing more than a cloud of dust and an empty beer-tin, but occasionally he would drag out a saloon plate, a silver coffee-pot, a mildewed loaf, a pair of underpants, or the crumpled photograph of an inconstant girl friend.
    ‘Mr Hornbeam!’ he would shout, waving the find under the Mate’s nose.’ What’s the meaning of this? Eh? We’ll find the chronometers in here next!’
    The last call was my hospital. Sunday was the only occasion when it was inspected, and Easter spent the morning polishing the brasswork and tipping all the small moveable objects and surgical debris into a large white bin labelled’ Sterile Dressings’. As we arrived he stood smartly to attention beside the door, hiding a large black patch on the bulkhead.
    ‘All correct, Doctor?’ the Captain growled every Sunday.
    ‘Yes, sir. All correct.’
    He fixed Easter with his eye.
    ‘Any complaints?’
    ‘I am very happy, Captain,’ Easter replied unctuously-‘
    ‘All right. Pipe down, Bos’n.’
    The crew were scattered to their Sunday indolence and we went up to the Captain’s cabin, where we stood in a line in front of him, our caps under our arms, and he emphasized the points that had incurred his disapproval. Then we all sat down and had a gin.
    There were no religious observances on board the Lotus - an omission that was deplored only by Easter. This surprised me.’ I didn’t know you were a churchgoer,’ I told him.
    ‘Ho, yes, Doctor. I likes a nice service of a Sunday. Breaks the monotony a bit. Not much good in an old tub like this, but in the big passenger boats I used to sing hymns at the back. I’ve got a bit of a voice,’ he added modestly.
    ‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’
    ‘Used to take the plate round as well.Real nice job that is. Must be the sea air what makes them generous. You see them old skinflints what wouldn’t give a tanner to a blind baby at home sticking in quids and suchlike. Made quite a bit out of that in my time.’
    ‘You mean you actually helped yourself from the collection?’
    ‘Sort of commission, as you might say,’ he explained amiably.’ Nothing much, mind you. No one knows